jester’s costume and try to think of a new
joke fit for a king.
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79
Some of his efforts were better than others.
See what you think:
When is a piece of wood like a king?
When it’s a ruler.
What does a king wear when it’s wet outside?
A reign coat.
Where does a king keep his armies?
Up his sleevies.
What is a king’s favourite monster?
King Kong.
What is a king’s favourite car?
A Royals Royce.
Which is a king’s favourite American state?
Kingtucky.
If the king didn’t find the joke funny, he
would proclaim grandly: “We are NOT amused!”
But as he thoroughly enjoyed saying those four
words, he always liked joke time, whether the
jester’s joke was good or bad.
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The Cat and the King
They didn’t have a jester any more, but they
did have the bumper book of jokes from the
car-boot sale.
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The king closed his eyes and chose the joke
for the day by opening the pages at random
and stabbing with his finger. Today’s joke had
nothing to do with kings. It was a cat joke.
“What did the cat have for breakfast?” read
the king. “Mice Crispies.” He thought for a
while, then proclaimed with great satisfaction,
“We are NOT amused!”
The cat, on the other hand, found the joke
utterly hilarious and couldn’t stop chuckling
for ages.
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Then, as it was such a lovely, sunny
afternoon, the pair of them went and sat outside
in the deck chairs. Once the cat had finally got
over the joke, he saw that the king’s forlorn
expression had returned.
“I miss my banquets,” he sighed.
The Cat and the King
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Back in the old days, another one of his favourite
“king things” had been to hold a Royal Banquet.
The servants would prepare a magnificent feast
and bring all the dishes out under huge silver
domes, to be placed on the long table in the
Banqueting Hall.
Important guests would then arrive from
far and wide. There would always be twelve of
them, dressed very smartly.
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The truth of the matter was that these guests
were the king’s dozen servants, having
changed into their party clothes but, once
again, the king didn’t realise this. And, once
again, the cat made sure he never found out.
The servants, by the way, didn’t mind this
part of their job one little bit, because they got
to eat all the wonderful food they’d made and
have a nice, relaxing afternoon. It put them in
a very good mood and they were quite happy
to listen politely when the time came for the
king’s speech, and to clap and cheer him when
it was over.
More!
Bravo!
Bravo!
Encore!
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The king was remembering those jolly
occasions as he lay in his deck chair. The cat
saw him wipe away a tear and felt sorry for him.
He wondered what to do – they couldn’t have a
Royal Banquet at Number 37 because they didn’t
have a banqueting hall, but . . . but . . . but . . .
they could have a Royal Garden Party instead!
And they could invite the Cromwells, the nice
family from next door.
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The cat fetched his felt-tip pens and a handy
sheet of card. He drew a smart decorative border
and, within it, in his best writing, he wrote:
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“Bravo!” cried the king, when the cat showed
him the invitation. He picked up a pen and
added:
Do you like the way he underlined his
signature? Signing things was one of the “king
things” he was particularly good at.
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By the way, you might be wondering what the
king’s real name was. It was:
Theodore
Hadrian
Engelbert
Kensington
Isambard
Nicholai
Gideon.
But that was far too much to say or write, so
he took the first letter of each name, and that
made:
T H E K I N G.
Perhaps you’re also wondering what the cat
was called. His name was Tibbles, but he much
preferred to be known as “the cat”.
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The cat immediately took the finished
invitation round to Number 35 and popped
it through the letterbox.
Then the king and the cat spent the rest of
the afternoon planning the garden party.
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Chapter 9
Cressida and Christopher Cromwell were very
excited when they found the invitation lying on
the doormat – as was Mrs Cromwell when she
came home from work.
They chatted away over the dinner table,
discussing what they would wear for
the occasion.
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Mr Cromwell, on the other hand, sat there
with his arms folded, looking grumpy and
humpfing quite a lot.
“Load of nonsense,” he said. “I’m not going
to bow, curtsey or burtsey to a neighbour. I’m
not going to call him ‘Your Majesty’ and I’m not
going to get togged up in morning dress, either.”
Humpf!
The Cat and the King
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“Will I have to get a morning
dress?” asked Christopher,
thinking it sounded an odd
thing for a boy to have to wear,
especially in the afternoon.
“I’m sure your favourite
shirt will be just fine.
With a tie, perhaps, and
your medal, of cours
e,”
Mrs Cromwell replied.
She looked at her husband.
“As for you, Ollie, you can
wear whatever you like,
so long as it’s not your
tracksuit.”
Mr Cromwell humpfed.
“What do you think
we’ll get to eat and drink?”
wondered Cressida.
Humpf!
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“Humpf!” went Mr Cromwell. “You know
what kings eat, don’t you? Boars’ heads and
roasted swans and larks’ tongues. Poor little
birds.”
Both the children shrieked in disgust.
Mrs Cromwell told her husband to stop being
so naughty.
Christopher picked up the invitation again.
“What does ‘R.S.V.P.’ mean?” he asked.
“It means we must send a nice reply,”
said his mum. “So you, Ollie, can drop
a note round right now saying
we’d be delighted to come.”
Mr Cromwell frowned and
made an extra-loud
“humpf” noise.
Humpf!
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He was still humpfing on Saturday morning
as he stood at the bathroom mirror, shaving. But
then he happened to glance out of the window
into next door’s garden, and saw the king and
the cat bringing out a set of giant dominoes.
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Mr Cromwell’s eyes lit up. The thought that
there might be games to play that afternoon
cheered him up enormously.
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Chapter 10
At three o’clock on the dot, the doorbell of
Number 37 rang. The cat opened the door and
greeted the Cromwells. As you know, the cat
wasn’t one for talking, but he smiled politely
and shook everyone’s hand.
The Cromwells had really made an effort
with their outfits, and Mrs Cromwell and
the children proudly sported their gold
medals.
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Mr Cromwell was wearing a dinner jacket
with a flower in the lapel and a polka-dot bow
tie. But, if you looked closely, you could see that
the jacket, flower and tie were actually printed
on a t-shirt. He was also wearing shorts instead
of long trousers.
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The cat led them through to the back garden,
which the king and cat had set out like a
banqueting hall. The dining table had been
brought outside and around it stood the dining
chairs, deck chairs, beanbag and, in central
position, the throne, upon which sat the king.
He and the cat had carried out all the furniture
that morning (actually, the
king had done most of
the carrying.)
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The table was covered in a large white sheet,
beneath which were some intriguing lumps
and bumps.
The king smiled at the guests. “We bid you
welcome,” he said.
Two Cromwells curtsied, one Cromwell
burtsied and one Cromwell made a loud
“humpf!” sound.
The King gestured to the chairs and everyone
took a seat. “Let the feasting begin!” he cried,
with a clap of his hands, and the cat whipped
away the sheet.
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The Cromwells’ jaws all dropped open at
once. They stared in silent horror at a huge
boar’s head with an apple gripped in its jaws; a
great big swan, still covered in white feathers,
and an enormous pie with a pastry crust out
of which poked lots of blackbirds’ heads, their
orange beaks pointing at the sky.
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“Tuck in! Tuck in!” encouraged the king,
and he leaned forward and snapped the head off
the swan. The two children and Mr Cromwell
all squealed but, strangely, Mrs Cromwell now
looked rather amused. She reached over, chopped
off one of the boar’s tusks with her knife and put
it on Christopher’s plate.
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“Cake,” she chuckled. “They’re all made out
of cake!”
She was right. The day before, the king and
the cat had made three magnificent cakes,
following recipes they’d found in the party-cake
book. To be honest, the cat had done most of
the baking and decorating (he was a very clever
cat) but the king had helped
lick out the bowls and had
washed AND dried all the
pots and pans.
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The boar’s head was
really chocolate gâteau;
the swan was
vanilla sponge,
and the blackbird
pie was coffee-
and-walnut cake.
Yummy!
They all piled their plates high. Even Mr
Cromwell had to admit the cakes tasted
absolutely amazing. The adults drank cups of
tea and the children drank cups of cola.
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When they’d all eaten their fill, Christopher
stood up, burtsied and presented a scroll of paper
to the king.
“I’ve drawn you a picture, Your Majesty,” he
announced proudly.
The king unrolled the paper and gasped in
delight when he saw a very fine double portrait
of himself and the cat, both looking most
handsome.
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The cat smiled appreciatively, too, and
thought how well the picture would look
over the fireplace.
“Bravo, bravo! You are truly talented, young
man. We thank you most kindly,” said the king
with feeling and, in the wink of an eye, the cat
had dashed inside the hou
se and returned with a
gold medal for Services to Art.
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Next, Cressida stepped forward and curtsied.
“I would like to play for you, Your Majesty,”
she declared, and lifted a recorder to her lips,
whilst Mr Cromwell held up her music book.
When he heard the melody, the king couldn’t
have been happier – Hot Cross Buns was one of
his five favourite tunes!
Cressida played
beautifully, with hardly
any mistakes. When she’d
finished, she got a loud
round of applause.
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“Splendid, splendid! Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!”
cheered the king. “What else is in your
repertoire?”
“I know London’s Burning, Yankee Doodle
and Frère Jacques and I’m just learning the
James Bond theme tune,” said Cressida.
The king nearly burst with excitement –
by some extraordinary miracle they were the
remaining four of his five favourite tunes.
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“Perhaps Cressida could pop by with her
dad after school and play one of the pieces for
you when she does her daily recorder practice,”
suggested Mrs Cromwell, after her daughter had
received a medal for Services to Music. “And
Christopher could bring
along his tambourine.”
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Mr Cromwell was about to humpf loudly, but
it did occur to him that there might be more
scrumptious cake on offer if he and the children
were to visit again, so he kept quiet. The king
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